


crossed walks and crossed hearts

by KilltheDJ



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Ghoul & Kobra don't have friendship they have ENEMYship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Slice of Life, but slice of life for KILLJOYS so like. not domestic at ALL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: The Lobby isn't a place Fun Ghoul likes to be, but the cold air doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it will. He's just waiting for hell to break loose in there, so he can act like a hard-ass.That's love, right?
Relationships: Fun Ghoul & Kobra Kid (Danger Days), Fun Ghoul & Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 14





	crossed walks and crossed hearts

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while listening to The Mighty Fall by Fall Out Boy on loop and somehow this manages to COMPLETELY not catch that.

Love was the type of word to mean different things depending on the tongue it was rolling off. 

Fun Ghoul knew that; love meant a paid bar tab and a backroom for the sly-tongued and narrow-eyed, and love meant forever and a day to the wide-eyed and the inexperienced. 

To him - when it was rolling off his tongue, at least - love meant staying alive. Love meant staying alive when the nights got cold and the sky was suffocating, suffocating while the stars laughed. 

Safe to say, he didn’t like being the Lobby; the artificial atmosphere of Battery City was enough to strangle you, to reach down and make you take a needle of cold straight to the veins if you weren’t in your pre-assigned apartment at the strict curfew, while skyscrapers loomed with nothing in them other than the brief passing of papers. 

Down in the Lobby, where he was - and certainly, after curfew - the air was biting, an artificial temperature drop and the High Rises glared out at him, waiting, waiting for him to get discovered, waiting for him to end up as another victim of Better Living Industries. 

They want him to make his appearance. 

If there was one good thing about the Lobby, Ghoul supposed, it was the color. The color meant that he wasn’t that out of place with the graffiti and the old droids and the Juvee Halls slinking through the alleys; his green jacket was a relic of the past, but nothing more than that. 

Love meant that he was standing here, in the Lobby, in a city he swore he’d never go back to, clutching a blaster inside his jacket rather than in his holster where it  _ belonged.  _

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong boxed in, suffocated; the City was a coffin and slowly but surely, it would kill him, like it killed the rest of the drones who lived in it, pain-free and love-free and emotion-free unless they bought it for a discount on the corner store. 

The bar he was intending to go to was across the street, though he wouldn’t be drinking anything if he could help it. While the Lobby might have actual alcohol, he was raised on whatever the hell was out in the Zones and, oh, not here for pleasure. 

That was the  _ only  _ fucking reason he’d ever be in the City, of course. 

But he had another two minutes until he was supposed to enter the bar, according to the Battery City-standard watch sitting on his wrist, glaring up at him a bright white whenever he looked at it.

So, Fun Ghoul leaned against a streetlight, waiting for time to pass, blowing a bubble from the gum he’d stolen from Jet Star before he’d left. 

This wasn’t the first time he was on  _ bail-out.  _ Destroya, you’d think people would realize he was the  _ demolitions  _ expert for a reason.

Then again, maybe it was more-than-obvious how he got his name. He was supposed to slink around like a  _ ghoul,  _ after all, and maybe that meant he should be used to this. They did go on runs to the Lobby rather often. 

One more minute. 

The bar didn’t seem to be all-too interesting; another licensed establishment selling life and love in a bottle and pill if you knew what menu to order off. Colorless and bland on the outside, neon lights on the inside telling you exactly how to feel. 

All in all, it wasn’t the kind of place that Ghoul wanted to spend his time; he much preferred the company of his own damn home than the lights of a bar, or a nightclub, whether in the City or out in the Zones, but it wasn’t his idea. 

Bland as it was, there were  _ contacts  _ in there. 

Oh.  _ Time’s up,  _ Ghoul thought with a hum.

His bubble popped once again - both the one made of bubblegum and the aura of calm that’d washed over the street - as the sound of  _ fear  _ started echoing out of the bar, three seconds before the door was slammed against the exterior wall, and people streamed out in a steady river of  _ panic.  _

They were all the same, really. In the same clothes, pre-approved, with the same accessories, pre-approved, and the same with their make-up and their hairstyles and everything screamed  _ you don’t belong here, Ghoulie, you don’t belong anywhere near these people.  _

It was just flushing out the normalcy from the situation, of course, as Ghoul waited for the stream to lessen before taking a step off the sidewalk. 

The street was empty; people streamed out, but they didn’t  _ dare  _ walk in the street when there was a perfectly good sidewalk, and so his boots crunched against the gravel still-there from last week's wash; the door was still swinging open. 

Ghoul  _ finally  _ untucked the blaster from his jacket, unzipping the damn thing before he could retrieve the weapon - hopefully, he’d look better than he felt. 

Because  _ love  _ was bailing your family out when you were pretty damn sure you were coming down with something, and chewing bubblegum made you forget your ears hurt like hell and your forehead didn’t feel any fuckin’ better. 

The dog tags around his neck jingled without the jacket over them, and that was what announced his arrival: he ducked through the door with his blaster on  _ stun  _ when there’d been a chance. 

Really, he should’ve expected the three gazes that were now fixed onto him. 

None of the normal civilians were in the bar anymore, of course, but Ghoul’s own crew was - his crew’s resident pair of Venom Brothers, the type of Killjoys that dressed in neon and shot first without any question and never lived to see twenty-two -, and the other occupant, of course, was a Juvee Hall. 

While Juvees were far more likely to take the all-black look too far, this one did the  _ opposite;  _ so much color and mismatched cloth you’d expect they were a Killjoy, at first glance, with the yellow-and-pink polka-dot shirt, green camouflage skinny jeans, and red-painted combat boots. 

And, of course, the black-and-pink-and-orange painted ray gun pointed directly at Party Poison’s head. 

Party Poison was sitting on a barstool, holding a full shot on the counter with a lazy smile and his legs hanging over the edge of the stool, one touching the ground and the other on the support bar, just to grab the switchblade in his pocket when he needed it. 

Kobra Kid, on the other hand, was standing on the opposite side of the bar, blaster pointed at the Juvee’s head with a gaze hidden by sunglasses and mouth turned into a narrow, thin line. 

“Look like I walked into a  _ party,”  _ Ghoul drawled, keeping his stance casual, walking in as though this was a birthday party for a guy in college he didn’t particularly like. 

Not like anyone’s life was in danger, of course. 

“Babe, I  _ am  _ the party,” Poison hummed, pushing the shot to the side and paying no mind when some of the liquid spilled onto the beige counter. Really, who chose a beige counter for a bar? 

“I’m sure you are, but we have business, don’t we?” Ghoul asked, walking further into the room, hesitating only when he caught a flash of the Juvee’s finger twitching on the trigger; Poison wasn’t going to die in a fucking bar stand-off. 

No, that was like telling  _ Mike Milligram  _ to die in a  _ ditch.  _ Might work for Mad Gear, but not Party Poison. 

“Who the hell are you guys?” The Juvee spat, clearly trying to keep their eye on  _ all  _ the occupants of the room, but it was impossible unless they had another eye; it was Ghoul and Kobra the Juvee decided on, seeming to realize that Poison had a gun to his head. 

Who would try something with a gun to their head? 

Party Poison, that’s who. 

“We’re the friends you lied to,” said Kobra, in no way, shape, or form,  _ intimidating.  _ Save for the blaster and the dead-on aim, of course. 

The rasp to his voice, though, that makes the Juvee’s handshake, makes the business end of his blaster knock against Poison’s head, and that was when Poison decided he’d had enough playing around. 

The switchblade from Poison’s pocket made an appearance in the back of the Juvee’s leg, drawing blood — Poison’s taken the blaster from their head before they’re even falling. 

He twirls it around by the trigger, admiring the paint job more than anything, now standing rather than sitting, one combat boot on the Juvee’s chest. 

“Nice paint. Where’d you get it?” 

The question would seem far more innocuous if it wasn’t dawning on the Juvee  _ exactly  _ why they were there; the victims of a sell-out and a little more blaster fire than should’ve been required. 

“Party Poison,” the Juvee whispered to themself, half in awe, and half in fear, staring up at Poison as though he was the messiah, the savior of thousands brought to life in one box of hair dye. 

According to the radio broadcasts Dr. Death Defying was always spitting, Poison might be. 

“Mhm,” Poison agreed, grinding the heel of his boot down a little as Ghoul came to stand next to him, leaning back against the bar counter rather than interfering; he seemed to have it handled. 

For now.

They have another three minutes before Better Living storms the building with a fifteen-Draculoid and two-Scarecrow Unit, searching to find the source of the commotion. They weren’t going to find anyone other than a few explosives if Ghoul had anything to say about it. 

Kobra, though the situation where Poison was vaguely in danger was over, hadn’t stopped aiming his blaster, going for either intimidation, or he just hadn’t realized what was going on yet. 

Or maybe he just didn’t care; Ghoul could never tell with the guy, and he’d be lying if he said he cared. Kobra Kid was an enigma and one that Ghoul didn’t want to fuck with unless it was needed for a run or a mission or whatever. 

The guy was good with a blaster, that was all Ghoul needed to know. (That, and he threw a hard sucker punch; Ghoul’s jaw was still aching from it. Remind him to repay Kobra for that later.) 

“You have around - actually, I dunno. Ghoul?” Poison looked over expectantly, casually, and Ghoul shrugged, humming a tune that’d gotten stuck in his head, the blaster hanging loosely by his side. 

“Two minutes and thirty seconds, I believe.” 

“Sweet.” Poison then turned back to the Juvee, applying just that much more pressure with his foot. “So, you’re gonna tell me your name, you’re gonna tell me who you work for, and you’re gonna tell me why you needed to rat us out to make a pretty penny, yeah?” 

“I’d start talking,” Kobra said, and Ghoul didn’t know any better, - and he didn’t - he would assume it was  _ amusement  _ dancing through his voice. “Do you want to be here when you find out what happens in two minutes?” 

Ghoul couldn’t stand this  _ crime.  _ “Two minutes and thirty-seconds, actually.” 

“Sure, asshole.” 

The Juvee, on the other hand, looked vaguely terrified; they were young, probably a Pop Starter for some big rebel who thought they were all that. If you asked Ghoul, having kids run drugs for you made you one of the worst out there. 

Maybe even worse than Better Living. He’d decide later, when the Juvee started talking. 

“Tick, tick,” Poison hummed, and with the rise and fall of the Juvee’s chest, it was unclear whether they were panicking or just plain afraid. Then again, was there a difference? 

Then they had the smart idea to open their mouth, especially after a light happened to flicker above the bar. 

“I - I - My name is Critical Veins, an’ - an’ I don’t work for anyone other than myself, okay? Well, well, there’s Rushraider, but he sort-of just makes sure I can eat at the end of the night and - and, uh, I didn’t know you would be there! At that Market, I didn’t know! I thought - I thought I could just get out of it with enough to  _ eat,  _ alright?” 

Ghoul was a little more skeptical of the Juvee, even with neon fucking green hair falling into their eyes, but Poison deemed this an acceptable answer, putting their boot back on the floor rather than their chest, and tossing down the Juvee’s blaster. 

Kobra took this as a sign to lower his gun, fucking finally. His expression and stance hadn’t changed. 

“Minute-and-a-half,” Ghoul reminded, just to keep the atmosphere as tense as it was supposed to be. 

The Juvee - Critical Veins - scrambled to their feet, clutching their blaster close to their chest and looking around wide-eyed, either scanning for trouble or wondering why the hell he was in the company of three famous Killjoys. 

Oh, he knew why. 

Poison walked away without saying a word to the kid, to the entrance leading behind the bar and into the kitchen, shouting over his shoulder with nothing more than a shift in blood-red locks dancing over their shoulder. “You comin’, kid?” 

The kid scrambled after him as their life depended on it. Considering the ticking clock, though, Ghoul supposed it did; and he let Kobra follow, after, flanking the kid, before he walked behind the bar himself. 

It was always best to walk in the back, make sure trouble didn’t leave anyone behind. And he didn’t trust Kobra not to jam a blaster in his back, though he didn’t think the Kid would be so brazen with Poison feet away. 

Poison got out of the building with little fanfare; the kid was clinging to him, damn near, while Kobra shadowed the two of them like a fucking ghost. 

And they said  _ Ghoul _ was the ghost out of the three of them. 

Sirens echoed through the district, of fucking course, right on schedule, and Ghoul grinned to himself - whether he got to see his handiwork or not, they would do the damage they were supposed to. 

It was one of the downsides of Better Living’s attempt to make sure everything was perfect and as on-time as possible. A three minute response time. 

Three minutes they’d taken advantage of. 

“Alright, are we taking the kid?” Kobra asked, jamming his blaster back into the holster attached to his belt; everyone knew he sucked with a blaster at high-speeds. That was  _ also  _ where Ghoul came in. 

“Ask the kid,” Poison shrugged, as though they weren’t losing precious seconds.

Then again, when they turned the corner - and they were walking, of course, though Ghoul couldn’t focus on the imagery as much as he wanted to - there was the Trans Am, an eye-sore with too much sentimentality parked off to the side, in the shadows. 

And next to it, of course, two bikes; the one Kobra had used two days ago, stolen and not the same model as his Desert-painted usual, that was back at the Diner while Jet fixed up the engine, and the other, another stolen model from the outskirts with at least two crashes to its name, the one with Ghoul’s name written all over it. 

Ghoul picked up the bike with ease, sneering when Kobra gave him a deadpan that read  _ hurry up  _ in, possibly, the bitchiest way possible. 

The Trans Am’s driver and the passenger door opened, Poison sliding into the driver’s side while the kid slid into the passenger like an over-excited feral animal. 

Looked like they were taking the company. That was going to be interesting to explain to Jet when they got home. 

The engines of the bikes fired without a sound as Ghoul and Kobra mounted, though the Trans Am could be heard for miles. 

Taking their sweet time, of course.

The sirens were getting louder. Louder, louder; everyone was still, Poison revving the engine without going anywhere on purpose.

A few more seconds. 

Ghoul’s grin turned a little feral, too, because the moment the tires of the Trans Am squealed to life and Poison turned harshly the ‘Am to the road, the bar lit up in explosions that Ghoul couldn’t hear all too well, but he knew the sound of screams anywhere. 

It was easy to watch the flames take over as concrete poured in, from the angle Ghoul could see, but Kobra was smacking his arm, expression unknown behind the yellow GOOD LUCK helmet that now obstructed his vision. 

Ah, helmets. For suckers, if you asked Ghoul. 

“Time to go!” Kobra shouted like Ghoul didn’t know that already, but he kicked up the kick-stand, anyway, tightening his hold on the clutch and following behind Kobra.

While Ghoul was all things demolition and stealth, Kobra was combat and racing. A Motorbaby and a Crash Queen at heart, of course, and that meant Ghoul had to begrudgingly follow, try not to challenge him lest they get into a race in the heart of Battery City. 

Oh, and they were going the opposite direction of the Trans Am, straight past the Draculoid van and Scarecrows on duty rather than  _ away.  _

Really, love meant getting shot at with an artificial cold in the air and the clock reading 12:03. 

**Author's Note:**

> !! my tumblr is @saveyourself if you want to come say hello !! thoughts ??


End file.
